


Waltz of the Flowers

by Lunarium



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, F/F, Spiritual, Tolkien Femslash Week
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 01:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7555069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/pseuds/Lunarium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elemmírë and Írimë in three steps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waltz of the Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter using these prompts: 
> 
> i12: cliches - flowers   
> i12: Language of Flowers - witch-hazel: a magic spell   
> i12: Emotions - Hope  
> O43: Lyrics & Poetry -Let me find you and the song (forever) between us (Eloise Klein Healy)   
> N19: story elements - violets   
> O43: Language of Flowers - Phlox: Harmony

It was only when Elemmírë returned home that she noticed the flowers. A whole basket of them on their—now only hers—kitchen counter, in yellows and golds and violets and reds. Each a different kind of flower, a different meaning, for she and Írimë spoke many languages between each other, and the language of flowers was one of them. 

The roses were what she first spotted, their vibrant rich petals noticeable even from this distance to declare the love that Írimë had been too grief-stricken to speak herself before turning her back. It placed their earlier meeting, their farewell, into a wholly different context, and though Elemmírë’s heart still ached, a small smile accompanied the pain, a faint hope. 

Somehow their presence was enough to lift the dark gloom left in her wife’s passing to the east, the message clear that though Írimë had chosen to walk beside her brother in a deadly march towards their common foe, she would not forsake their love. She had taken the time to write Elemmírë a final note, and had chosen the sweetest language to convey her words.

There were roses of other colors, yellows for their friendship and violets of their mutual adoration, and white for the purity of their love; purple Hyacinths to beg for her forgiveness, a handful of flowers from an almond tree to speak of her promise to return—all words she could not utter, a poignant message penned by petals and stems.

As she drew to the center of the basket, Elemmírë took a step back, noting the abundance of witch hazel and phlox carefully placed together: witch hazel for a magic spell and the harmonious phlox to mean “we are united as one soul.” 

She understood their meaning instantly. 

They had never attempted the method, having had no need to perform such a thing before, but Elemmírë was eager to now try. She parted the flowers until she found it: Írimë’s signet among the flowers, the symbol of her house in vibrant paint compressed down into a small ring that rested into the palms of Elemmírë’s hand. She kissed it before setting it beside her, recalling the spell Nienna and one of the ancient ones (as Írimë lovingly called the elves who had awoken by Cuiviénen) had taught them. 

Though uncertain how well this would work, Elemmírë sat, focusing her mind on their love, their connection, and attempted the method. 

That night she made three prayers for her wife, and at the end of each she had a vision of the perilous journey ahead for Írimë as though each prayer granted her a chance to see what her wife would later live through. When she saw grinding ice and felt the bitter wind cut through her bones, she prayed for warmth; and when she saw the fiery breaths of shadowy beasts beat down right by her wife’s tired feet, the screams of their kin ringing in her ears, she prayed for rain. But instead of rain there was only dry, sullen earth, but her wife was safe, though Elemmírë could not see her face. But she sang to her, song coming as naturally to her as speaking with flowers did with Írimë. But her wife did not stir, not as first, and when she finally caught glimpse of the music and shifted, Elemmírë awoke from the spell, or thought she had woken, for she briefly caught snippet of Írimë marching beside her brother. It would still be many years before that moment at the sullen earth. 

She fell asleep and when she had woken again felt comforted. Again she attempted, whenever she could, to reach out to her beloved through prayer and song, reaching out as far as their connected souls would allow them. She used the song, their bond, forever pulsing between them as their heartbeats once had as they lay in bed together. 

She lay witness of Írimë’s journey. Wept when they lost friends in the ice. Wept when they lost friends to war. Perhaps Írimë had wanted it that way, was too afraid to face the new world alone, so she made Elemmírë watch it beside her, many miles away. 

And sometimes, while searching through her mind crossing the sea and the lands towards Írimë, Elemmírë, could almost find herself back in her lady’s arms, the song between them clear in her ears, as Írimë lay in her bed with her arms on either side of her, the longing for Elemmírë mingled with the song. But even in those times Írimë never seemed to take notice of Elemmírë’s presence, and Elemmírë could not glimpse her beloved’s face. 

But sometimes, it was just the knowing that Írimë was safe was enough to help Elemmírë through every lonely, quiet, waking day. 

Then one night she awoke from her slumber, taking note that her bed was different—she had fallen asleep while in her vision of Írimë—and looked up. Írimë was lying beside her, tucked under the covers. It was the first time Elemmírë beheld her beloved’s face after so many years of perfecting the magic: so fair and mighty and haunted, yet her Írimë all the same. Their gazes met and she smiled, the warm glow that Elemmírë had missed for so long. 

Írimë brought a pale hand to close the short distance between them and settled it on Elemmírë’s cheek. The touch, so warm and _real_ that it pulled Elemmírë right out of her spell, but instead of sorrow at the broken thread, there was hope in the certainty that filled her heart. As if finally gazing into her love’s eyes had been answer to some unspoken question all those years, she knew: Írimë would come out of this war alive and safe, and one day she will return home.


End file.
